by David Dodge
He figured it. He was still suspicious, but it sounded right. Besides, he was counting on cleaning me, of hams as well as everything else, before he moved on. He agreed to deal, after some hemming and hawing.
“All right,” I said. “We deal. But first I have to dig up five-thousand-odd dollars worth of sterling in Tangier to buy your dirhams, and that’s not the kind of cash I ordinarily carry around in my pants. You’ll have to let me take my half out of the box.”
He balked there. It hurt him to let that kind of money get away, even temporarily. But he had to come around if he wanted to do business, and by then he had his own con adjusted to the new developments.
After we had cut the melon we argued some more about who was going to stand the costs of the Tangier trip. Both of us put up a good fight to show what square-shooters we were. In the end we split it down the middle, as we expected to do from the start. There was only one other small difficulty.
“Druther have dollars,” he said. “I don’t trust this here now sterling stuff.”
I shrugged and said, All right, I’d get him dollars if I could, as many as possible, but pounds sterling were easier to come by in Tangier because of its busy trade, in part legitimate, with Gibraltar. I wouldn’t be able to give him as good a price in dollars as I could in pounds. He finally agreed to take pounds. Still suspicious, of course.
“How long you gonna be gone?” he wanted to know.
“Well, let’s see. There’s only one Tangier flight out of here a week, on Saturday. That’s tomorrow. It’ll be back a week later. I ought to be back with it if I don’t have any trouble finding the money or get knocked over going or coming. Why?”
“I don’t want to git to worryin’ about you.”
“Why would you git to worryin’ about me, neighbor?”
“I’m jest a natcheral born worrier, I guess.”
“That’s sweet of you, but don’t go bald worrying about me. I’ll be back.”
In her own time Michelle got me alone to ask much the same questions. We spoke French whenever Reuben wasn’t tuned in, so her accent disappeared while mine, which wasn’t as cute as hers, cropped out.
“You will come back, will you not, Curlee?”
“Of course I’ll come back. Why wouldn’t I come back?”
“Elmaire thinks you may forget.”
“What Elmer means is he thinks I’m going to run out and leave him holding the sack.” By then she knew that there wasn’t going to be any camel caravan, although not that we had planned it that way from the beginning. “There isn’t any sack to hold, Michelle. Whatever happens, the money to meet our guarantee is already in the hands of the travel agent. Elmer is clean if he wants to move along tomorrow.”
“He doesn’t want to leave. He feels a responsibility until the people have made the trip. He thinks you should share the responsibility with him. So do I.”
I couldn’t very well tell her that Elmer’s only sense of responsibility was toward getting my share of the loot away from me. I said, “If I give you my word that I’ll be back as soon as I can get back, will you believe me?”
“How could I not?”
“How could you not what?”
“How could I not believe your word?”
“There are dozens of ways you could not believe my word. There are lots of words not worth believing for three seconds. Mine could be one of them.”
She shook her head, smiling. “No, Curlee. You would not lie to me. I know.”
For some reason she made me think of Reggie, who was equally positive I couldn’t tell the truth. I said, “Damn it, I would too lie to you! I lie to people all the time. Everybody lies to everybody else all the time. The world turns on an axis oiled by lies. Don’t be naive.”
“I am not naive. You have given me your word that you will come back. You will be back.”
“Yes. Certainly. I did. I do. I will. But I’d give you my word just as readily if I weren’t coming back, so where does that leave you?”
“With your word. Thank you, Curlee. I’ll tell Elmaire he has no need to worry.”
She left me defeated.
If Elmer thought his only worry was that I might not come back with my half of the boodle, he could think again. There I was taking all the risks of smuggling the money, losing it to the law and ending up in a smelly Moroccan jail while he sat on his ass with his share in his pocket and his cute doll to keep him company (Boda, Boda, poor innocent child, I would have done anything to save you) while he enjoyed the entertainments of the Djemaa El Fna. You big hay-shaker, I thought resentfully as the plane took off, putting me to all this trouble. If it weren’t for Michelle I wouldn’t even leave you carfare.
My heart was as heavy as lead when the plane put down in Tangier. Even the feel of all that money in my pants didn’t help. Boda was lost to me forever, already on her way to Buenos Aires or some Middle Eastern den of depravity if she wasn’t locked up in an Arab joint down in the medina where I couldn’t find her in a thousand years. Poor, beautiful, simple, harmless, honey-golden Boda. I was darn near in tears when I opened the door to the empty, lifeless apartment—it was long past Kadoosh’s quitting time—and found her sitting there in her slacks and sweater. Not doing anything, just sitting there with her hands in her lap. She gave me the great big slow smile, like the sun coming up out of the sea at dawn on a clear still morning.
“Hello,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Oh,” I said foolishly. “Have you?”
My mind had ceased to function. I had been so completely convinced that she was lost to me forever that I couldn’t accept the reality of her presence.
“You told me to.”
“So I did.”
“Can I take my clothes off now, Carly? I need a bath. It’s been three weeks.”
“You mean—you mean—you mean—you mean—?”
That’s what she meant. I had told her, to be emphatic, to keep her clothes on night and day, except for the kaftan, and by God that’s what she had done. Night and day for three weeks.
“Except that I changed my underpants a couple of times, Carly,” she said. “Was that all right? I didn’t think you’d mind if I changed my underpants. I did it in the dark.”
She hadn’t put on any makeup, either. I had told her not to. Or go up on the roof, or open the door to anyone but Kadoosh, or the other things. She hadn’t even once gone out of the apartment. She had obeyed instructions to the letter, sitting there without makeup or a bath or as much as a walk in the street for three whole weeks because that’s what she thought I had told her to do. I guess I had, at that. Anyway I was real glad to see her, and greatly relieved. No more about Boda at this point, except that after she had her bath and put on her makeup I took her out for the best dinner sucker-money would buy in Tangier. I bought her a new lipstick, too. It was all she wanted or needed that she didn’t have.
I got back to Marrakech one week later, heavier by a lot of pounds. (Get it, neighbor?) I expected to find Elmer at the cafe near the Djemaa El Fna, chiseling marks with Thirteen Matches. He wasn’t there. He and Michelle had had to retire from public view a few days earlier. Daddies and Mommies had been buttonholing him in the street wanting to know when the camel caravan would take off for glamorous far-off dreamy romantic Timbuctoo. Since he couldn’t very well tell them the caravan was scheduled to leave the day snow fell on the Sahara, he had gone into hiding. I ran him down after first making sure that the round trip air-tickets, hotel vouchers and the rest were all ready at the travel agent’s, each in its properly addressed envelope for delivery to the happy travelers the day after we blew town. I also checked to be certain the teuf-teuf was in running order. Everything was fine in both departments.
I gave Michelle the dress and bikini I had picked out for her in Tangier, got a sisterly kiss of thanks in return, and generously took her and Hayseed Henry to the Mamounia for dinner. The Mamounia’s food is by no means the best in Marrakech, but I had reasons for choos
ing the hotel. In the gay spirit of the evening I let Elmer stick me for two bottles of champagne with the Thirteenth Match. Even good champagne didn’t taste good to him unless he bilked somebody for it. During the course of the evening, at a time when Michelle had excused herself to go to le petit coin, we made the dirham-sterling trade.
I sent a waiter out to the desk for a couple of the big hotel envelopes. Elmer pulled out his wad, I pulled out mine, we made the exchange; counting the bills right there on the table under each other’s nose so there could be no kickback. Right? Right. Into the envelopes, envelopes into jackets, the whole thing over and done with before Michelle came back with her nose powdered. We were raising our champagne glasses in a congratulatory toast to each other when she arrived.
In the abstraction business every crook has his own M.O. A second-story man climbs porches. A peterman robs peters. A strong-arm clobbers you, a con man cons you. We do not commonly cross over into fields other than our own, although we may vary the M.O. within those fields. Which is to say, if a peterman can open a box by twisting the dial, he is not going to take the trouble to blow it as an artistic effort. Similarly, a bunco man may get into your pockets in any of several ways, but he does not stoop to violence. It is beneath his talents. I knew I had nothing to fear in that respect from Hezekiah Hayloft, although he was plenty big enough to give me a hard time if he had wanted to. He didn’t want to. He merely itched to get his hands on that envelope in my jacket to join up with the one already in his own jacket. Thereafter he would fade over the nearest horizon with Michelle, leaving me with my memories and the last match.
The signal came when the yokel volunteered— volunteered, mind you—to pay for a third bottle of champagne to cap the evening. I allowed as how that was right neighborly of him. The bottle came and was opened. We toasted each other again, toasted Michelle, drank, and the party was over. According to schedule I passed out cold with my face on the tablecloth as a result of too much champagne and the knockout drops he slipped into my glass with all the ham-handed dexterity of a stableboy forking dung. And who do you suppose paid for the third bottle of wine along with everything else when he woke up with a splitting headache several hours later? Right? Right.
I can only guess how he got the envelope out of my pocket under Michelle’s slightly oversize but otherwise attractive nose. Maybe she wasn’t wholly innocent as I thought she was, although if she fooled me she was a lot too smart to run with Elmer. I suspect that he said something like, Well, golly, gee, honey, looky here, that pore drunk feller has got this here now envelope full of money on him, I guess it would only be neighborly of me to put it in the hotel safe for him before somebody steals it, huh? Anyway, he got it—the envelope in my jacket pocket, that is. Full of dirham green-goods I had prepared earlier to look like the envelope of genuine dirhams he had just given me and which I had carefully inserted into the lining of my jacket through a slit therein, also prepared earlier. I figured he wouldn’t take time to examine the dirhams before getting out of town with them. Any more than he would take time to examine the sterling green-goods I had bought him for two shillings on the pound in Tangier. Even if he did, he wouldn’t know a real five-pound note from a counterfeit Irish Sweepstakes ticket. As for the dirhams, he wouldn’t believe they were phony when somebody told him. Golly gee, hadn’t he seen me put that there Mamounia envelope into my jacket after watching me stuff if with the genuine dirhams he had just given me in exchange for pounds? It goes without saying that the most important part of a good con is to make sure the mark never suspects he’s getting the phonus bolonus when you slip it to him with something as elementary as the old Envelope Switch. The gratifying part is in letting him think he is conning you for it.
I never heard what happened to Elmer when he tried to spend his collection of wallpaper. I hope Michelle didn’t get into trouble with him. I had put an envelope of eating money in the package that held the new bikini I had brought her with the dress, so she wouldn’t go hungry on my account. Although if she hung around with Elmer long, she’d end up wearing bracelets. I don’t mean diamond bracelets.
The teuf-teuf behaved reasonably well all the way home. I felt so good, about Boda and the other things, that I hardly winced at the stout bill the Arab mechanic handed me for the repair job. Not then I didn’t wince, at least. Not until the hot-iron merchant in Tangier stuck me with the cost of another repair job. The Arab had put in what was needed in the way of “new,” i.e. second-hand, valve stems, plugs and things; patched up the old cylinder-head so it would hold together as far as Tangier, spray-painted everything to make it look shiny and clean and sold me the package as new goods imported from Rabat. It was only a little con, of course. Nothing like the nearly ten thousand dollars I brought home, but still a good clean professional job. It goes to show. If you let yourself do business in the other guy’s store you’re going to end up with his merchandise at his price on his own terms. I sure wouldn’t want to let good ole Elmer get me down on the farm at any time in the foreseeable future.
Chapter Seven
The next day I was back pounding away at the mill, grinding out further immortal prose on the financial attractions of Tangier for believers. I didn’t need the money anymore, what with the loot I had safely tucked away under the floorboards of the apartment. But the passport had still to come through and the work kept me from worrying too much about Boda.
The time was fast approaching when I would be moving along again, and I couldn’t take her with me. I don’t mean I didn’t want to, necessarily. I couldn’t. She had no papers, she had no wish for papers, she didn’t know what had happened to the papers with which she had left Denmark, if any. She couldn’t remember. Dragging her avec would be like dragging a ball and chain, wholly aside from the constant need to beat wolves off her with a club. And I couldn’t leave her alone and unsheltered in Tangier, any more than Jim had been able to. I had to figure something, but I wasn’t quite ready to look around for my successor. So I typed. Until one afternoon there was a knock on the door.
She was up on the roof, and she knew she was never to come down without her robe on. No immediate problem there. I opened the door.
A respectable looking French bank-clerk type was standing there. He wore an incongruously sporty cloth cap that had been set squarely on his head with a spirit level. It made quite a contrast with the rest of his get-up, strictly from middle-class Clerksville.
“Good afternoon, monsieur,” he said politely. “Is this your name?”
He held out some kind of an official-looking document so I could read the name on it. It was mine.
“It might be,” I said. “Why?”
“I have a warrant for your arrest. Interpol.”
He put the paper carefully away in his pocket and took out a wallet with an identification card in it; picture, thumbprint and the rest. It looked genuine. So did he.
I said, “Well, come in, come in. I guess we ought to talk, huh?”
“Thank you. I think we should.” He took off his cap before coming in. If I’d had a doormat I think he would have wiped his shoes, too. Carefully. He was that kind.
We talked. That is, he talked. I listened, thinking hard and fast.
By sheer accident and the chance of having spent some time in escrow with the two motards who had on occasion been assigned to Interpol business and had nothing better to do than talk about it, I knew quite a bit about Interpol. More formally, it’s L’Organization Internationale de Police Criminelle. The O.I.P.C., which has its headquarters in France and to which most civilized and many semi-civilized nations belong not including Russia and her friends, is not a police force in the sense that the F.B.I, is a police force, for example. It has no body of law-enforcement officers, whatever nonsense you may have heard or read about secret Interpol agents going around nobbling international crooks. The organization’s main function is to receive, correlate and disseminate information about crooks on behalf of its constituent members. It also maintains, in Fra
nce, a central bureau of liaison through which the police of any contributory country can make quick contact with the police of another contributory country to ask for a pickup-and-hold; on Luigi Giovanelli, say, after Luigi has banged a box in Turino and lammed out for points north, possibly Switzerland or Austria. But any arrests made because of Interpol’s intervention in a case are made by the police having proper jurisdiction on the national soil where the arrest is made, none other. An Interpol agent can no more make a pinch in Tangier, or anywhere else, than the Red Cross can. Furthermore, the warrant, which looked legal as far as it went, was signed by a French judge, and France had about as much jurisdiction over me in Tangier as it would have had in Tokyo. I couldn’t even be extradited for a little thing like cigarette smuggling even if I had been guilty of that, and I’d never been adjudged guilty. In short, the guy was either a complete phony or running a bluff.
I thought it was a bluff. His papers looked real, he looked real. His neat bank-clerk’s manner was right for a guy who probably spent most of his working day wearing sleeve-protectors while sorting mug-shots into alphabetical order in steel filing cabinets. That meant, probably, Reggie’s fastidious British fingers manipulating the shells and pea. When I asked him for a closer look at the warrant, which he gave me readily,
I was certain of it. I wasn’t wanted for the de Lille swindle, just the theft of personal property from the Hon. Regina Forbes-Jones. That lousy graveyard suit, believe it or not. I hadn’t even worn it since leaving France.
All these thoughts went through my head a lot faster than I’ve been able to set them down. The guy stood there holding his silly cap, politely and patiently waiting for me to come along quietly. I didn’t know what to do with him. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by telling him to foutre le camp. He was too much of a gentleman for that kind of language. While I was hesitating, trying to decide how best to tell him the disappointing truth, a door opened and closed behind us.
